


Playing with Fire

by vix_spes



Series: Fire in the Blood [3]
Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Three Musketeers (2011), Young Blades (2001)
Genre: #RareMeat, #Youngboots, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Pain Kink, Painplay, Possessive Behavior, Rare Pairings, Wall Sex, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-07 10:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19082923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: For all that he's hotly tipped to be Louis' personal pick into the Musketeers, the Gascon lacks both commonsense and self-preservation. Why else would he be playing with fire and flirting with the Queen's little chit in front of Rochefort?





	Playing with Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/gifts).



The fact that young Charles d’Artagnan of Gascony was going to be the King’s next – personal – pick to join the famous Musketeers was an open secret at court. It was accepted as fact. He shared lodgings with the Kings current favourites – and Rochefort’s prime annoyances – Athos, Porthos and Aramis, and trained in the yard with Treville’s blessing. They were simply waiting for King Louis to announce it and hand him the uniform. Then again, if he continued to play with fire as he currently was, he might not live long enough to achieve his dream.

And wouldn’t that be a shame.

Rochefort knew that d’Artagnan had a lack of self-preservation as well as a reckless streak, however he had not thought him to be completely stupid. Yet, if his behaviour was anything to go by, then either he had been born with no braincells at all or he had lost them in the numerous fights he had been involved in since arriving in Paris. You see, Charles d’Artagnan may be King Louis’ newest pick for the Musketeers, but he was also the Comte de Rochefort’s personal whore.

Rochefort had first come across the boy some three months past, when the pup had had the gall to call Rochefort out over the most pitiful horse that Rochefort had ever seen. He had then been called to a tavern just within the city walls that wasn’t the most discerning when it came to its clientele. The Gascon pup had had words with a group of Rochefort’s Red Guard, challenging them and one of Rochefort’s seconds – Jussac – to a duel. And beating them soundly. Rochefort had been so turned on that he had forced the boy to his knees in the stable, making him take Rochefort’s cock down his throat until he painted that pretty face with his spend.

It was two weeks before Rochefort saw the pup again. Two weeks in which Rochefort practically stripped his cock raw to the mental image of d’Artagnan on his knees in the stable, lips bruised and swollen, face covered in Rochefort’s come. He didn’t think that he’d masturbated that much, even when he was little more than a boy and had just discovered the pleasure that his cock could bring.  

Then there had been a second incident at a tavern that was in an even less salubrious area than the first. When Rochefort had turned up, his men had seen a humiliating defeat, d’Artagnan was spitting and fighting like an alley cat and Rochefort was soon sporting an embarrassingly hard cock. He had taken the little spitfire to bed and had not been disappointed, despite any initial reluctance.

To his amazement, the boy had turned up at the Palais-Cardinal as ordered and, rather than being reluctant like the whores of Paris, had been positively eager.

Since then, Rochefort had had the boy numerous times in the Palais-Cardinal – both in his room and across his office desk – in several stables around the city, a little nook just outside Richelieu’s rooms and, on one notable occasion, up against the wall of the Musketeers training ground. Yet, the boy never complained. Indeed, he was positively eager; a welcome change from the reluctant and truculent ladies of the Court and whores of Paris. He took Rochefort’s sizeable cock down his throat as though it was the most delicious thing he’d ever had in his mouth and let Rochefort plunder his arse with an eagerness that the most seasoned whore could not fake. Yet, he always remained tight as a vice around Rochefort’s cock which would imply that however eager for cock he was, it was only Rochefort’s that he was desperate for.

Which made his current behaviour all the more frustrating.

If he was so eager for Rochefort’s cock – and that was well-known by now – what the hell was he doing flirting with the Queen’s little pet? What was her name, Madame Bonacieux? Oh, he supposed that she was pretty enough – all blonde-hair, big blue eyes and skin like porcelain as well as being a favourite of Queen Anne – but she could hardly give the pup what he craved. What he needed. Rochefort could. He knew that what the boy really needed was a bit of firm handling. Someone to put him on his knees. Someone to tell him what to do, what he wanted. A long, hard cock down his throat or up his arse. That was what he craved.

And Rochefort was all too happy to give it to him.

Really, it wasn’t as though it was a hardship. Despite the number of times that Rochefort had fucked him, he was still as tight as a vice around Rochefort’s cock. He had a ‘never quit’ attitude which meant that he would never stop trying to take Rochefort’s cock down his throat, even when his lips were blanched white around the girth, tears were streaming from his eyes and he was choking on it; all he did was swallow around it, causing the most delightful sensations for Rochefort, and try harder. He could almost take the whole length of Rochefort’s cock now, which was no slight task. Even better, d’Artagnan was somewhat fond of pain which, quite frankly, made him even more perfect for Rochefort’s tastes. He liked being manhandled, he liked being forced and he liked a little bit of pain. It simply seemed to add to his pleasure. And Rochefort’s. There was nothing quite like seeing d’Artagnan’s arse a beautiful cherry red thanks to a spanking at Rochefort’s hands. Unless that cherry red was decorated with Rochefort’s come.

It was a good job, really, that d’Artagnan liked pain. Rochefort was certainly going to cause him pain after this. It wasn’t bad enough that Rochefort had been summoned to this … event. That he had to stand and listen as the Musketeers were lauded and his own Red Guard were humiliated. No, he also had to stand and watch as d’Artagnan – the little spitfire that had been warming his bed for the last three months – flirted and all but publicly courted the Queen’s favoured lady-in-waiting. Kissing her hand, bowing obscenely, ensuring that she had whatever food and drink she required, a dance partner whenever she wanted, offering little asides to make her giggle.

Constance bloody Bonacieux.

The little madam was the Queen’s favourite. The same woman that d’Artagnan had fought Rochefort’s men for in the yard of a tavern. Not bad for the wife of a Parisian cloth merchant. Then again, what was the wife of a respected merchant doing behaving like a trollop in the Royal Court? Clearly, she was unhappy with the state of affairs in her marriage, if the coquettish glances that she was sending in d’Artagnan’s direction were anything to go by. It was sickening really, the way that she treated him. Rochefort would never treat him like that. No, Rochefort preferred other methods. Methods that resulted in pleasure for Rochefort and both pleasure and pain for d’Artagnan.

He’d never met anyone who relished experiencing pain as d’Artagnan did. It was glorious. Yet, Rochefort wanted more. He was a possessive man. He wanted reassurance that d’Artagnan was his and only his. If the pup was eager enough for Rochefort’s cock, then it should be the only cock that he got.  Rochefort didn’t like sharing his toys with others – he never had – and d’Artagnan was definitely _his_ toy.

Maybe it was time to remind d’Artagnan of that.

He seized his opportunity as Bonacieux went off to attend to the Queen, leaving d’Artagnan alone.

“I should horse-whip you for the way that you’ve behaved today. Flirting with that little chit in front of me. You should know by now; you belong to me.” Rochefort growled the words out, but then he saw the way that d’Artagnan closed his eyes and shuddered at the prospect of being horse-whipped.

Not in fear, but in anticipation.

“Then again, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You little slut. My little Gascon whore.”

"Yeeeessssss,” d’Artagnan hissed the words out, swaying in towards Rochefort’s body involuntarily.

“Palais-Cardinal. My chambers. Ten pm tonight. And don’t forget, the more you flirt, the more severe the repercussions will be. I will be watching.”

 ~*~

Sometimes it was beneficial to be detested. For the rest of the evening, Rochefort was able to skulk around the shadows of the ballroom under the pretext of doing his job when, really, what he was actually doing was hiding the fact that his cock was rock-hard in his breeches and keeping an eye on d’Artagnan. His little spitfire had toned down the flirting with Bonacieux, but he was still flirting with the ladies of court, sending the odd coquettish and incendiary glance in Rochefort’s direction, just to make sure that he was watching.

He was.

As Rochefort had expected, the King and Queen retired just after nine thirty pm – they really had become insufferable since the bloody Musketeers had reunited them – and were swiftly followed by Richelieu. Rochefort was then free to leave himself. He left a number of the Red Guard on duty, informing them that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. If they needed anything, then they were to go to Jussac or Cagliostro. He then slipped out of a side door, not bothering to try and gain d’Artagnan’s attention.

There was no need to. The boy would be there.

Rochefort was right, of course. He had made a detour to the stables to collect the necessary equipment before heading to his chambers. While he waited, he removed his hat, cloak and jacket leaving him in just his breeches and shirt. He removed his sword and poured himself a glass of wine, content to wait. Just as the clock struck ten, the boy slipped into Rochefort’s private chambers with that blasted insouciant grin on his lips.

“I believe you wanted to talk about my behaviour, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Yes.” Rochefort leaned back against his desk and beckoned d’Artagnan forward. As soon as he was within reach, Rochefort shot out a hand and tangled it roughly in that riot of curls, twisting until d’Artagnan’s knees buckled and that lily-white throat that looked so perfect decorated with the marks of Rochefort’s mouth was exposed. “I believe you need reminding that you belong to me and me alone.”

“How do you intend to do that, my lord?”

“Strip.”

The eagerness with which the boy did so was almost a disappointment. In more ways than one, Rochefort had enjoyed it when d’Artagnan hadn’t been wholly consenting. It added another little frisson of excitement and pleasure for Rochefort, watching him struggle and plead before he finally admitted that it was what he wanted and needed. A little fire in the blood. There was nothing to say that that couldn’t be replicated with a little encouragement.

Encouragement that Rochefort was more than happy to provide.

He watched, sipping on his wine, as acres of porcelain white skin was revealed, every single inch of it just waiting for Rochefort to mark it. Long, lithe legs topped with a plush arse that many a lady at court would be jealous of. Eyeing one of the candelabras on the wall speculatively, Rochefort undid his sword belt, wrapping it around his hands and snapping it a couple of times, relishing in the crack of the leather. A possible option for another day. He jerked his head at the wall and watched as d’Artagnan obeyed without question.

It never failed to amuse Rochefort, the dichotomy between the two sides of d’Artagnan. When he was with the Musketeers, d’Artagnan was mouthy, refusing to cow to anyone irrespective of them being his better and disregarding the rules whenever he liked. He acted as though he were above all of that. Yet, with Rochefort, he was different. Oh, he was still mouthy but he willingly ceded power to Rochefort and didn't obeyed his commands. Eventually. The contrast in his nature was fascinating and begged for more investigating at a later date.

Rochefort tied d'Artagnan's wrists to the wrought-iron candelabra with his sword belt, ensuring that it was fastened tight enough that he couldn't wriggle free and that d'Artagnan was forced to stand on tiptoe. That done, he trailed a proprietary hand up d'Artagnan's spine, fisting his hand in those curls and wrenching his head back so he could bite at the juncture just below d'Artagnan's ear.

"Who do you belong to, pup?"

"I belong to no-one. I am a free man." The words were panted out, d'Artagnan's breathing increasing a little bit.

Rochefort ran his whip over the swell of d'Artagnan's arse, relishing in the sound as his breath hitched. Not in fear, but in anticipation. And maybe just a little bit of fear. Rochefort liked that.

"Wrong answer, pup. You belong to me. It's time I reminded you of that."

Rochefort didn’t bother waiting until d’Artagnan was ready, didn’t bother warning him. What was the point? D’Artagan would enjoy it either way. The only warning was the sound of the whip whistling through the air. It landed with a loud crack and left the most beautiful mark. A livid thin red line, standing out perfectly on that pale skin. The only thing that would improve it would be more of them. Rochefort saw no reason to restrain himself. He set about raining down blows with the whip, varying where it landed until d’Artagnan’s arse was a glorious patchwork of delicate criss-crossing red lines, on a background of bluish-purple bruises, while d’Artagnan wriggled and jerked like a fish on a line. He made the prettiest sounds; whimpers and little choked moans.

"Please, please. I need to…"

Rochefort peered over d’Artagnan’s shoulder and saw that he may be in pain but, given how his cock was straining against his belly, he was still enjoying himself.

"You need to what, boy?"

"I need to come,” d’Artagnan let out a sob, “ _please._ ”

"How prettily you beg.” Rochefort unlaced his breeches one-handed, placing the other on d’Artagnan’s arse, feeling the heat radiating from it. He upended his flask of sword oil over his cock, smearing it along the length and set his cock at d’Artagnan’s tight pucker. “You can come when you admit the truth, admit who you belong to."

Rochefort didn’t bother preparing d’Artagnan. He didn’t need to. Instead, he slowly sheathed himself to the hilt in d’Artagnan, feeling the boy relax around him, accepting Rochefort’s cock into his body. There he paused. That was all the consideration he was going to give.

“Well? Who do you belong to, pup.”

Rochefort pulled out until just the tip of his cock was in d’Artagnan and then he slammed back in, balls deep, the jut of his pubic bone slamming into the web of whip marks. The way that d’Artagnan tightened around him was glorious. It got better with every single thrust. Yet, still the boy remained frustratingly silent, nothing but wordless noises escaping his throat.

“Well?” He all but snarled it. d’Artagnan could be as stubborn as he wanted but Rochefort would fuck the answer that he wanted out of the boy. He increased the brutality of his thrusts. If he could whip the boy and fuck him at the same time, he would but it wasn’t physically possible. And then, he had an idea. He might not be able to do what he wanted, but d’Artagnan didn’t know that. Grasping the whip, he trailed it up, over d’Artagnan’s hard cock and behind to the tightly drawn up balls. It had the intended result.

“ _You._ ” The words were half-sobbed/half-gasped. “ _I belong to you._ ”

Never let it be said that Rochefort didn’t reward obedience. “ _Come._ ”

d’Artagnan did exactly that. He came, untouched, his arse striped from Rochefort’s whip, clenching around his cock and spurting his come over both his belly and the wall in front of him. Rochefort continued thrusting, not caring that it would quickly cause d’Artagnan discomfort. When he felt his own balls draw up, he spent the first spurts of come inside d’Artagnan before he pulled out, stroking himself through the rest of his orgasm and painting his canvas with his come, making it look even more pleasing. Rochefort staggered over to his desk, his breeches just about clinging to his hips and his cock leaking the last bit of his release over them. Slumping into his desk chair, Rochefort reached for his wine glass, knocking back the last dregs before refilling it.

Maybe he’d enjoy the view for a little bit before he let d’Artagnan down. It would be a shame to waste such alluring art.


End file.
